When he lounged into a room, even a
bar-room, he took the stage, so to speak; you were bound to look at
him. When he spoke you listened to words, wise or otherwise. When he
smiled you were seized with an absurd desire to shake his hand!
He was herding sheep for Silas Upham, a man of flocks and herds, and
the father of one child, Hetty. Meeting Wilkins for the first time, I
wondered what Hetty thought of her sire's shepherd.
Wilkins told us that our back fence was down, and that a bunch of
steers had broken through into Upham's alfalfa. We thanked him,
offering whisky and tobacco. He accepted both with captivating smile
and easy nod. A minute later he was sitting in our most comfortable
chair, staring at our books and engravings. His eyes lingered upon the
best of these with a look of recognition. He asked no questions.
Next day we rode over to his hut, and smoked some pipes. Wilkins spoke
of India, Australia, France, and Italy, but he never mentioned
England. Nor did we. Presently, somewhat to our surprise, Hetty Upham
cantered into camp. The day happened to be unusually hot, which
accounted, perhaps, for her rosy cheeks.
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